Postrzeganie
by Talibra
Summary: /All I need to hear from you, Mr. Poland, is confirmation that you have accepted your defeat./ Oneshot, set during the Polish-Ukrainian war, dark themes.


**AN: **Deanon from kink meme. The prompt was "Ukraine being as psychotic as her siblings".

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><p><strong>postrzeganie<strong>

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><p>Poland wakes to cold air and immeasurable darkness, slumped against an ice-cold wall made of smooth alloy.<p>

He is more than used to this situation by now.

There is a foul-tasting metallic tang in the air, and he deduces that the panels all around him must be steel, keeping his temperature low and his morale weak. At least, that's probably the plan. Pain throbs in the base of his skull; someone recently rendered him unconscious, in the usual way. He can't remember what happened, but it must have been something impressive – an ambush, perhaps?

It doesn't matter. All that matters is, this isn't fair. He _won_. Why has he been taken prisoner because of a war that _he_ emerged victorious from?

He gets to his feet – it's a good sign that his legs haven't been broken – and cautiously raises his arms. He holds them out as far as he can stretch them when he feels a little more daring, but his fingertips brush against nothing. Perhaps he's alone in this lightless room, wherever it is, because he hasn't been chained down and his movement hasn't been restricted. He quickly pats his inner thigh, and sighs gently with relief when he discovers that his pistol hasn't been taken, either, still tucked neatly into its well-concealed holster.

This kidnap has to be Russia's doing. That bastard was never going to let the War escape his interference. Poland spent the entire campaign wondering if Russia would turn up, inflict a few bruises, take revenge in the name of his sister – because it would be expected, wouldn't it? Disloyal to everyone, except where it counts.

In all honesty, Poland has never actually _seen_ a truly feral side to Russia before, but it's real. It has to be. There's never smoke without fire and the plentiful rumours are quite enough evidence.

"Is someone there?" Poland calls, taking an uneasy step forward. For all he knows, the floor beneath his feet could give way if he walks too quickly or goes too far. Death isn't something he's scared of, but it's an inconvenience, and it's really quite uncomfortable. "Could you, like, turn on some lights or whatever?"

His voice echoes slightly, bouncing off the ceiling and smooth walls. He doesn't receive a response at first, and his heart sinks when he thinks that maybe he _is_ alone. It's a thought that doesn't last long.

"Would that make you feel comfortable?" a voice calls from the gloom, resonating from somewhere in the distance. If this truly is just a room – a warehouse, perhaps, because it has that reek of toil and neglect – then it's a large one. "Would you be willing to co-operate if I turned on the lights?"

The voice is familiar. It is undoubtedly that of Ukraine.

Poland relaxes. It's _Ukraine_. Just Ukraine; cloying and caring. Perhaps she's summoned Poland here to apologise for her actions and temporary arrogance, wishing to make up and move on. It has been a difficult War, but it's over now and he's willing to forgive, forget.

"I'm _so_ glad it's you," Poland says, smiling even though she can't see him. "I'll totally talk to you anyway. It would just be super if I could see where I'm going, though."

He's barely finished his sentence when a loud clang echoes through the chamber, and near-blinding bulbs flicker to life quickly afterwards. The beams are strong and he instinctively shuts his eyes, covering them with his fingers.

"It's alright," Ukraine's voice says, her speech accompanied by a laugh. "You're just not used to the lights yet – they're not that bad. I can see fine with them."

Slowly, Poland drops his hands. Ukraine wouldn't lie. He eases himself into opening his sore eyes again, blinking like a newborn child taking in its first view of the world.

Ukraine is standing a good few metres away, hands behind her back, hair tucked into a sensible black cap. Her expression is one of good cheer, though her clothes are still militaristic. Hasn't the planned ceasefire been signed yet? Are they still supposed to be at war with each other? What a drag.

"Where is this place?" Poland asks, but Ukraine doesn't reply. She simply lets her arms hang at her sides and flicks out her wrists, gesturing to the walls around her.

It's a command for Poland to look around for himself, so he does. He takes the time to angle his head this way and that, spinning on the spot, drinking in every inch of the odd location. Upon this further inspection of his surroundings, Poland realises he's not in a warehouse at all.

The room isn't very impressive; France would despair of the decor, and there's no furniture or distinguishing features. The floor is wooden, but the floorboards in question are covered by crisp-white nylon sheets. The high ceiling is painted a contrasting black. Though the walls are coated with gleaming metal panels, Poland can see sandy brick beneath them – the panels are an afterthought, mildly reflective, easier to wipe things from than blocks of clay.

This place is a venue for execution by firing squad.

"Please understand this is just a precaution," Ukraine says, when she observes the spark of shock in Poland's eyes. "I do not intend to kill you unless I have to, but it seemed a shame to waste such an impressive facility." She smiles. "Brother built it for me."

_Ah_, Poland thinks. So this _is_ Russia's doing, of sorts.

"I can tell what you're thinking," Ukraine goes on. "You think I brought you here because Russia told me to."

"Well, yeah," Poland says, folding his arms. "This whole thing is just... _not cool_. If you wanted to air some dirty laundry, we could have done it at my place. I can't get down with execution-chic."

Ukraine shakes her head. A single strand of platinum hair escapes from her cap, hanging over her ear, casting odd shadows as it swings. "All I need to hear from you, Mr. Poland, is confirmation that you have accepted your defeat, and that you intend to hand Galicia to me."

Poland's eyes widen.

_Defeat_? Like hell. He won, succeeded, came out on top, brought home the bacon – it isn't important how his act of triumph is described. The main point is, he _won_, and he's not going to confirm acceptance of defeat any time soon. Not now, not ever.

He realises he's said it out loud when he notices Ukraine gazing at him, her head cocked to the side, her expression one of bewilderment. She adopts a frown, one of confusion rather than irritation, and says, "So you don't want to admit to your shortcomings?"

"It's not going to happen," Poland says, with a _hmphf_ of indignation.

"But you are aware that you were overcome?"

"I _won_."

Ukraine shakes her head again. "You mustn't lie to yourself. Confess your loss!"

"No!" Poland says, outraged. "Do you _want_ to give me worry lines? It sucks already that I haven't slept properly in months. You utterly failed out there, Ukraine; just give it up already! Honestly, you're just–"

"Cease," Ukraine snaps, raising a hand. Her gloves are white, but the palms are smeared with something copper-coloured, slowly fading to a scrubbed brown like the material of her trench-coat. "I've heard enough. You have lost this conflict, Mr. Poland, and I don't want you to embarrass yourself like this. Please, accept your defeat!"

Poland merely stares at Ukraine in silence, speechless for possibly the first time in his life.

She never used to be like this.

He should know; he remembers growing up with her. He loved her gowns and the jewels on her mantelpiece, the stories she would tell him of dancing princesses with lace on their dresses. He can remember being in awe of her, and he can still remember the Commonwealth campaigns, the _thrill_ of taking great portions of her land to give to his monarchy.

She seemed happy enough about it, back then. She merely continued to smile and clothed him in blue.

"I'm not accepting anything," he says in the now, scoffing at the mere suggestion. "I rocked this war; it's _you_ that's humiliating yourself."

Hushed, Ukraine looks at her boots. For a moment, she almost appears bashful, sheepish, unnerved by Poland's sudden display of something like force. He watches her, unsure of how she'll play this, trying to anticipate her next move. Usually he wouldn't be so meticulous on something mundane like battle plans, but she's starting to alarm him.

When she looks up again, he sees chalcanthite-venom in her freshly-glazed eyes.

She never used to be like _this_.

"I'm sorry," Ukraine says, "for what I'm being driven to do. I hope you forgive me, but you've given me no other option. It's a shame; I was hoping to resolve this peacefully, but you need to be shown the _truth_."

(She never—)

"Gentlemen," Ukraine says, lifting her arms, holding her hands out by her head. "Take your weapons."

Poland checks over his shoulder, to see who she's talking to; there's nobody standing with her and there's nobody stood behind him, either. It's just her, and him, and a room prepared for death without any mortal stood inside.

"Ready your aim."

(She never seemed so much like _them_ before—)

Poland watches with morbid curiosity as Ukraine thrusts out her arms, pointing directly to him. She smiles, almost a smirk; it's futile because her face is a friendly one, not made to accommodate such a harsh action.

"Fire."

For a brief moment, Poland half-heartedly expects gunshots ringing out after her order. Perhaps she has soldiers with rifles well-hidden somewhere, _very_ well-hidden indeed. Why else would she command a group of men to fire at will? Why else would she bring Poland to a room _intended_ to hold gunman-inflicted executions?

But nothing happens. There are no soldiers. There are no bullets. There are no guns, except for the pistol that Poland's carrying – but it probably isn't required. Ukraine doesn't appear to have any weaponry on her; she's not a threat.

Appearing to be slightly confused, but not much else, Ukraine raises her arms as she had done before. "Let's attempt this once more, shall we, men? Please prepare your guns."

"Ukraine," Poland says, softly.

She ignores him. "Fire!"

"_Ukraine_," Poland says. "Seriously, stop a second."

This was never how she was. This was never how she dealt with things, was it? Not Ukraine; the closest thing he's had to a mother, a sister, a wise aunt with a caring ear.

"Fire!" Ukraine says, voice trembling, bottom lip quivering. Unable to bear seeing Poland's face, she turns on her heel to face the two large doors behind her; they're the only visible entry and exit point to the chamber, so Poland makes a note of them for later. "Why won't you all _fire_? He's the enemy! He is _Polʹshcha_; I didn't bring you to the Zbruch for you to tell me you're out of ammunition!"

There is still nobody there, but Poland suspects she already knows that. Her Zbruch men are long dead.

"Fire!" Ukraine demands, roughly pointing towards Poland again. "He needs to be shown that he's the loser! Fire! Fire!"

She wrings her hands, to no avail. Even if her men _were_ still here, Poland highly doubts they would be obeying her on this particular command. She was destined to be the loser, from the very start.

"Fire," she says, weaker than before. "I can't lose Galicia. I don't _want_ to. Fire. Please. Anything. Something."

Poland wonders why she wasn't better prepared. She's been torn into pieces plenty of times already, this isn't anything new. The concept of unity is lost on her; the honour of calling herself _Ukraine_, and nothing else, has been eluding her for centuries. He almost feels sorry for her, because she was so close this time, so close to 'unity' and the chance to replace all that's been taken before.

"Fire," she whispers.

Maybe she was always like this.

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><p><span>Notes:<span>

In 1772, Austria seized the region of Galicia from Polish control. This region held significance to Poland as it contained the ancient Polish city of Kraków. This significance meant that, when Austria-Hungary fell after WWI, Poland decided to get Galicia back. Ukraine wanted Galicia also, due to the fact Galicia contained a large Ukrainian population. Between 1918 and 1919, the Second Polish Republic and West Ukrainian People's Republic battled for Eastern Galicia.

Following the Russian Revolution, Ukraine had been partitioned into various different states, all fighting under the primary title of 'Ukraine' against Poland. The war ended with sections of Ukraine's military running out of ammunition during an important assault; they were pushed back into Ukraine via the Zbruch River by Polish forces, ending the war by principle. A ceasefire was signed 17 July, following Ukraine's defeat. However, Galicia was later annexed by the Soviet Union and given to Ukraine in WWII, as a cocking-a-snook against the Polish Government. The land is still majorly Ukraine's today, but Kraków remains Polish.

'Postrzeganie' is Polish for 'perception'.


End file.
